


Hell is Cold

by M_Moonshade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, I wasn't kidding about the angst, Post-Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas doesn't check in with Dean for a year after the events of Holy Terror. When he finally does, Dean is changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is Cold

It’s more than a year before Castiel sees him again.

It’s not that he doesn’t check up-- Dean still pays his phone bill every month, and every so often he’ll text the hunter. The fact that the replies are always monosyllabic at best (no more than a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ most days) isn’t particularly surprising. After all, Dean gets into those surly moods sometimes. It’s a state Castiel can understand far better now that he’s been human.

And if he hasn’t heard any news about the infamous Winchesters, well, that’s normal, too. Ever since the Leviathans, they’ve learned how to fly under the radar. And it’s not like they’re completely free of rumors. Every so often he’ll hear another hunter mention them in passing.

It takes ten months for him to notice a pattern. Another two for him to confirm it:

The rumors only ever mention one Winchester.

And so he texts: _Is everything okay?_

**Dandy.**

_Are you still in the bunker?_

**No.**

_Where are you?_

**Something up?**

This time Castiel’s fingers hesitate over the worn buttons of the phone. His stolen Grace is volatile, but he can still discern the stirrings of unease. Something is wrong. He needs to tread carefully.

 _Not over the phone,_ he writes. _Where are you?_

That gets him the address.

It’s a shack in the hills, not more than an hour’s drive from the bunker. It’s falling apart at the seams, but clever application of carpentry and construction skills keep it standing. Standing, but not pretty-- nobody ever painted over the scars of the old repairs. Under a lean-to garage sits a car that Castiel now recognizes as a ‘clunker’: a decrepit piece of junk that looks like it’s a bad snowfall away from rusting through. A quick glance tells him that it’s been well-repaired, but the thing is still ugly. Like the house, it is a perfectly functional collection of scars.

It doesn’t make sense. Dean is a vain man. He’s always been particular about his appearance, his need to remain perfectly groomed, perfectly attired, a perfect reflection of his own narrow view of masculinity (this, too, is something Castiel finally understands a little better).

Peeling paint and rusted cars do not fit into that worldview.

Dean emerges from the door like a predator, an angel blade raised, his jacket painted with a fresh banishing sigil. Recognition flickers in his eyes, before all at once they go cold and hard.

“Cas?” he grunts.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel does nothing to hide his concern.

A slight shake of the head: rejection. “If you’re really Cas, prove it.”

The fallen angel pushes aside the hurt. Of course he would be suspicious, after being tricked by the false Ezekiel. “There was a time when I thought I was going to die, and you took me to a whore house. You didn’t want me to die a virgin.” An afterthought. “You also said you were certain that people named Bert and Ernie were gay. I still don’t understand that reference.”

Another flicker-- relief?-- that’s stifled just as quickly. Dean jerks his head to the side, an indication to follow. “We’ll talk inside.”

‘Inside’ is possibly even worse than the outside of the building. One wall is more well-stocked than any bar Castiel has ever set foot inside: floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with cheap liquor. A second is papered with maps and reports. The remaining two are dedicated to weaponry. The only bedding is a sleeping bag rolled in one corner. The bathroom is missing a door.

Castiel might have assumed it was a safehouse, kept stocked in case of emergencies, if not for the atmosphere. The air is stifling: dark and cold and sharp. If there was a trace of sulfur, Castiel would assume a demon had made its nest here.

He shakes his head. “What is this place?”

Like before, Dean ignores his question. “You said you had something. What is it?”

“I was… concerned.” Castiel doesn’t remember the last time he’s had to choose his words so carefully. “For Sam. Is he all right?”

Dean’s face twitches. Another unfamiliar, momentary expression. Castiel can’t decide if it looks like the hunter is about to laugh or about to throw a punch.

“Where is he?” he tries again.

“Gone.” And there it is again: dark and cold and sharp and bitter as demon blood, radiating from Dean Winchester’s soul like light from a beacon. For a moment his face twists into a snarl, and then flattens again into a mask that’s controlled and flat and hard. “He’s dead. The angel in his head sent him packing. Now is there anything else, or are we done here?”

The fallen angel’s shoulders slump. “Dean. I’m sorry.”

“Save it.” It isn’t angry. It doesn’t carry the sting of a still-tender wound. It is simply impatient. “If you’re done, then go already.”

“Dean-- I didn’t know.” Castiel takes a step forward. Dean watches his stance with calculating eyes, but he doesn’t move. “If I’d realized, I would have come. If there’s anything I can do--”

“Don’t you have a toilet to clean somewhere?” Dean is lashing out. He’s angry. Hurting. That makes sense. It would make more sense if he could feel any anger from the man, but all he can feel is decay, like he’s standing in the presence of something long since dead.

“All right. I can go.” Cas takes a step back, and another. Supplication. “But let me know if you need anything. Because we’re family, Dean.”

That was a mistake.

Because that word means something to Dean. It always has. That word, above all else, has driven him since before he could form complex sentences.

There’s moment of pain, a snarl, and then it freezes over once more.

“No. No we’re not. Now do yourself a favor and get the hell out of my life.”

Castiel doesn’t get the chance to argue before the sigil is activated and he’s hurled into the Lake Erie.

The waters leech the heat from his bones. Were he not an angel, the cold would likely be enough to kill him.

But in that last moment, Dean’s eyes were colder.

 


End file.
